


a dream of mine from a thousand years ago

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Aging Angst, Dirty Talk, Erectile Dysfunction, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, Roleplay, Romance, Sex on a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 07:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18936643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Lightning finds some old photographs.





	a dream of mine from a thousand years ago

**Author's Note:**

> This one is really sweet and really dirty. Could take place in the Sweet Morphine universe if you wanted it to, a few years in the future. But it doesn't have to! It's for Thais, who's been begging for a fic out Doc's broken dick forever, and for Katie, who supplied some head canons and some pictures of Paul Newman in his prime, Enjoy!

He’s gotta be about forty in the photos, maybe forty-five. Clean shaven and smooth and chiseled and so handsome it takes your breath away. He’s fucking _smiling_ in one, laughing around a cigarette, and Jesus _Christ,_ just seeing that mouth so exposed and hard-edged and sucking on something? Your heart might quit in you chest for a moment. You might go into cardiac arrest. You didn’t know he smiled, back then. You didn’t know he smoked. 

The thing is, Doc hardly _ever_ talks about the past, let alone shows you fucking _pictures_ from it. You weren’t even snooping for these, you gave up long ago of sneaking glimpses into the man he once was. You were just _cleaning out the garage,_ which _he_ asked you to do. It was totally an accident. 

You still feel guilty as you thumb through the stack of photos, stomach in hot, confused knots. God, that’s your _man._ Your old man just not as old, his light eyes and handsome face and big hands and those strong, broad-knuckled fingers you can never fucking get enough of, in your mouth, in your ass. He looks just the same and somehow entirely different, like a ghost, and you shiver to think of what it might have been like to know him back then. You’re pretty sure you wouldn't have been good enough for this version of him, that he wouldn't have even _noticed_ you like he did at seventy, thinking you were some perfect golden boy when you were actually just a hungry, desperate mess with daddy issues, so obsessed with him you didn’t even know how to hide it. 

He’s gorgeous, in these pictures. So goddamned handsome it makes you ache. But you’re so glad you know him _now,_ when you actually have a chance. _The Fabulous Hudson Hornet_ might not have given a boy like you the time of _day_ in the fifties. 

“What are you touching yourself to?” he asks, sounding equal parts skeptical and amused. 

You jump, knocking over a coffee-can full of pens and a wrench, which clatter so loudly to the ground the half-boner you were subconsciously rubbing through your jeans immediately dies. “Jesus christ,” you say, hand over your heart. “I didn’t hear you coming.” 

“Because I was sneaking up on you,” he says, getting there and snatching the pictures away before you can hide them. “Where in the hell did you find these?” 

“They were literally just lying around, I _promise_ I wasn’t digging through shit or looking for stuff like this or anything,” you mumble, rubbing the back of your neck, trying to make sense of the hard set of his jaw, his unreadable gaze as he flips through them.

“Damn,” he says, tossing them back onto the dusty work table. “Used to be pretty damn handsome.” 

A tentative relief floods over you, so you reach for him, pull him towards you by his forearms, thrilled he relents. “Fuck yeah,” you tell him, palming up his back, cotton turtleneck soft under your cheek as you lay it against his chest. “So fucking handsome. Obviously.” 

He’s quiet, thoughtfully petting the back of your head with idle fingers. “Too bad you get me like this. So many years later.” 

Your heart leaps and you rip away, staring up at him. “Doc,” you say seriously, thumbing up his biceps . “I was literally just thinking about how m’so glad I met you _now_ , instead of back then. Like, the exact opposite of what you just said.” 

He makes an incredulous expression at you, like he _actually_ thinks you’re lying. “Why in the hell would you want that? All those wasted years…plus, the version of me now’s all broken down. My hair’s grey, I’ve got wrinkles, I have a goddamned _viagra_ prescription just so I can fuck you as much as you want to be fucked. That kid in the pictures? He wouldn’t have needed pills. He’d’ve given it to you exactly how you needed it.” 

You scoff. “Uh, _you_ give it to me exactly how I need it. The guy in the pictures wouldn’t have even noticed me, he would have beat me on the track and thought I was short, you probably had a million way sexier fifties-looking boyfriends back then. I’m glad I have no competition now, makes you think I’m actually special.” 

His blue eyes get wide and stunned for a second before he tears his gaze away. He’s trying to get out of your grip but you’re holding him fast, so he sighs instead, taking a step to settle back against the fridge he has in here for beers, letting you stay to touch him. “Do you actually think I had boyfriends in the fifties?” 

“Uh, it’s hard to imagine you didn’t,” you tell him, finally squeezing his arm before hopping up onto a creaky vinyl seat stool at the work bench now that you know he’s not gonna leave the second you let go. “You look like the sort of guy that made everyone question their sexuality. I mean, you made _me_ do that at thirty like two years ago. Imagine the sheer power of that at your _racing_ peak.” 

He snorts. “I didn’t,” he says. “I was scared. Everyone was scared, you didn’t—stuff like that didn't happen the same way it does now.” 

“Well,” you say, twisting on the stool, making is squeak. “Their loss. I would have been all over you back then, but I promise, you wouldn’t have wanted me the same way you do now, so, cheers to 2008.” 

You raise your hand for imaginary toast, thinking he’s gonna give this up, grab beers for each of you from the fridge, and drop the subject. He shakes his head though, folds his arms and stares at the dirty concrete floor of the garage, seeming troubled. “Lightning,” he says, which always makes you stop cold, him using your _name_ instead of a series of teasing pet-names. “I would have fallen in love with you so fast so hard, no matter when I met you. Wouldn't have mattered what year it was, you’re damn crazy to think otherwise, I’m—“ he cuts himself off, rubbing a hand over his mouth reflexively, which he always does before he’s about to cry or yell or otherwise crack along one of his seldom displayed seams. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for you. If you’d been around back then, then maybe I wouldn’t have been waiting so long.” 

Your chest is too tight and everything hurts and the only thing that will make it better is a kiss or ten or twelve, his body up against yours, so you hop off the stool and crowd him up against the fridge, roll onto the balls of your feet to find his mouth and kiss it hard. He doesn’t kiss back at first, wavering there like he’s got something else to say, but he can never resist you for very long so his hands are in your hair then, his tongue in your mouth for you to suck. 

“Hey,” you murmur as you pull back, you nose bumping against his, air hot between your mouths with shared exhalations. “M’sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound like—I dunno. I wish we had more time together, too. I’m just insecure about every fucking thing.” 

“Why,” he growls, and it’s not a question. He’s touching you all over, greedy and rough in that way he gets whenever he’s convinced you’re gonna leave, or crash your car, or disappear from him somehow. “You’ve got nothing to feel insecure about, you’re perfect, and _young._ You don’t have to take pills.” 

You push your brow to his, suck in his breaths. “Doc,” you urge, rubbing your hands down his shoulders, up his chest, hungry and sure. “You were _so_ fucking sexy back then. In those pictures. But _this, you,_ is what m’in love with. What I want. Pills and all. I think it’s _hot,_ part of _why_ m’so attracted to you is that you’re old. Sorry if that’s weird but like. I don’t love you in spite of being an old man, I love _that_ you’re an old man.” 

He laughs, breath huffing out on your lips, so familiar and sweet and salty your lashes flutter, your stomach drops. _God,_ you are _so fucking attracted_ to him, it always astounds you, the moments you realize he doesn’t fully buy it. You hate that you have to prove it over and over again, that he _never_ goddamned _believes_ you for more than a few months at a time. You _will_ prove it, you’ll prove it as long as he wants you, but you wish you didn’t _have_ to. That the desperate way you kiss him, the way you hold him all fucking _night,_ were enough. “What about it? S’inconvenient. M’slow and you're not. I don’t have your stamina.” 

“Fuck, it’s not all about stamina,” you remind him, palming down to his cock and feeling it through his pants before sliding a hand up his shirt to press into the thud of his heart. “It’s—I dunno, it’s so fucking hot, to me. That I get to be everything you’ve ever wanted. That you get to have this exciting, built up fantasy of me. That it doesn’t even _matter_ if you can get hard or not every time, you _still_ want me so bad, that you get off on doing stuff to me, like just—god, sucking my cock, licking my asshole. S’crazy to me, and so fucking sexy, that you don’t even really care whether or not you’re hard, you still live to make _me_ come.” 

“I do,” he tells you, voice clipped and quiet. “But you deserve better than that.” 

“There’s nothing better, than being wanted like that, old man. At least not for me,” you admit to him. It feels shameful as it comes out, because it reveals your insecurity, how needy you are, how desperate to seek reassurance that you're worth something, that you’re attractive to him. Still, he clearly needs to hear it, so you’ll bleed mortifying truths gain and again if it makes him feel better. “And yeah, you take pills sometimes, and _that’s_ hot, too. That you’ll do so much, go so far, just so you can fuck me. _Jesus._ And when I _do_ get you hard, without the pills…fuck. You know how proud and happy and _horny_ that makes me?” 

He kisses you then, holding you close, grinding into you. “Give me your hand, baby,” he murmurs, finding it and un-cementing it from his chest so he can shove it down to his tented pants. “That make you happy? You feel it?” 

You groan, squeezing his hardening cock through a layer of fabric. “God, yes, _yes,”_ you hiss, rubbing him, loving the heat. “So much.” 

“You have no fucking idea how lucky I am,” he marvels, licking your lips before biting them, making you yelp before you hump against his leg, still feeling him in reverent, clumsy strokes. “You think _you’re_ the lucky one. How the fuck.” 

“I _am_ the lucky one,” you keen, _overcome_ with your gratitude, how _powerfully_ lucky you’ve felt every goddamned day since the Fabulous Hudson Hornet let you in his bed. “So lucky. You—you have good taste. You care about things being nice, and—pretty— and. I’m _your_ boy. You have a prescription just so you can fuck me every day. Makes me feel like a million bucks.” 

“You’re worth more than that,” he assures you, pushing you off so he can get to your belt and unbuckle it, tug it from the loops of your jeans. “You’re worth— _baby_ , you’re everything to me, worth the whole world,” he huffs out, voice cracking. Then he pulls you back into his arms and shoves one hand down the back of your briefs to feel your ass, grip it tight in his rough, perfect fist. Your vision whites out and your knees are threatening to buckle, which is _fine_ because that would just drop you to the ground on them, putting you in the perfect place to mouth his cock through his pants, there on the dusty floor of his garage. _God,_ so fucking hot, all of it, and you shiver, pressing back into the pressure of his hand. “How do you want me?” you moan into his neck, licking sloppily over his pulse and rocking your hips. “Want to fuck me? Or want my mouth?” 

“I want to put you over the hood of the Hornet,” he murmurs low and hot in your ear as he pries your cheeks apart one-handed to rub his index finger right over your fluttering hole. “And lick you right here. Just like I would have if I’d met you as a rival in 51’.” 

Your stomach plummets so hard you feel sick, the whole of you fever-hot as you grind your cock against his thigh, gasping and shaking. “God, yes, fucking _please,”_ you keen, arcing your back and pushing into the pressure of his finger. “Then fuck me? When m’all wet for you?” 

“Fuck you with your face against blue metal,” he promises, licking up the side of your face, wet and possessive. “All mine. In any decade.” 

“Jesus,” you choke out, shoving your pants down, stumbling out of them and nearly tripping like you’re drunk. He steers you to the Hornet after that, rips the canvas cover off of the frame and backs you up against it before flipping you over. 

You feel like you’re gonna _die,_ like you stepped into the porno your seventeen year old self would have concocted if he’d had _any_ idea he wasn’t straight, if he knew there was a _reason_ he was so obsessed with _The Fabulous Hudson Hornet._ You’ve somehow never fucked in the Hornet, on the Hornet, and how, as Doc gets his pants off and starts to rub his hard cock into your ass crack through your briefs, you wonder how in the hell you’ve never thought of this before. You should have been begging for it _months_ ago. “God, look at you,” he groans, pulling your briefs down under the curve of your ass before parting the cheeks, gaze burning into your core as you writhe against his car. “Prettiest boy in the world, so gorgeous. If I’d raced against you—God. If I’d have _seen you,_ anywhere. I wouldn’t have been able to get you out of my head. Would have wanted you just like this, always.” 

“You have me, you have me,” you sob, presenting for him, bending your spine just so, so he can see everything. “Doc, _please.”_

_“_ I wasn't Doc yet, in those pictures. Not yet. I went by Hud,” he tells you, getting down to his knees gingerly. You think of the nice trousers he wears all the time with dust on the knees and rut against the car, fucking overwhelmed by the idea of him dirtying himself up for you, hurting his knees just so he can taste you right here. “Sharing a name with the car…people ate that up. Thought I was supposed to win.” 

“You were,” you tell him blindly, trying to hold still as you feel his breath on your ass, as he cracks you open with both hands and looks at you long and hard and lingering, deep enough it burns and hooks and and turns your gut in the best way. “God, just, _please,_ Do-Hud. Lick it, please. Lick me.” 

His exhalations are labored and overwhelmed as he dips in to drag his tongue right over your hole, get you spit-wet and twitching. It feels so fucking good you yelp, bucking against the hood, pressing back into him. He _loves_ eating you out, will do it for hours whether or not he’s hard, petting your thighs and back and just sucking and licking and fucking his tongue up Innside of you forever, treating it like it’s the ultimate sex act, the most satisfying and consummate thing two people can do together. One prostrate and gasping, the other suffocating, tongue salty and bitter and hungry. He makes you believe it, that this is the best you can be, the place you are most loved, most desirable. “How does it taste?” you murmur,” rocking back into his face, cock wet and twitching. “Good? You like it?” you ask, like you don’t know he lives to have you exactly like this.

“Love it,” he assures you between fierce, filthy, open-mouthed kisses where you’re dirtiest, breached raw and open and needy. “Still gonna beat you out there on the track, rookie. Gonna run you into the dirt.” 

“Jesus christ,” you groan, making fists in the canvas cover of the car, bunched around the windshield. “Not—not a chance, m—m’just as fast as you,” you choke out. “Just _fuck me,_ give me that hard cock, please Hud, need it.” 

He ignores you, licking messily, frothing, getting you so goddamned wet you’re dripping down your thighs. Then, just when you’re about to try to find the words to properly beg again, he’s getting up off his knees and cursing, pushing the head of his cock against your hole, silencing your gasps. “This what you need?” he asks, dropping his mouth to your ear, mustache scratchy and perfect against the shell of it. “To be fucked against the car you’re gonna lose to?” 

“Yes,” you admit, humiliated even though you’re not really racing, even though this is all just talk. You believe it on some level, though, that you will always be his inferior on the track, that he will always know more, how to _do_ more behind the wheel of a car than you ever could. It strikes you hard an sudden in this moment, that you’re _his_. You _belong_ to him, in this lifetime and one hundred others, the infinite weight of them stacking against you, making you curl, bend, pushing your self out to him desperately. “I need it, need you to fuck me. Don’t care who wins, s’long as you put it in me.”

He kisses your neck, your hair, your shoulders through the white cotton of your shirt as he spits in him palm and coats himself. “No lube, baby, you gone be ok?” 

“Yeah, just..be sweet, how you always are,” you whimper, reaching back with a sweaty hand and cuffing him on the back of his neck, guiding him close. “Fuck me good, Hud.” 

He curses and aligns, pushing in an inch or so, slicked up in a froth of saliva before spitting again, rubbing it around your breached hole. “Take me perfect, baby.”

“Made for you,” you remind him, pushing back against the burning stretch, breathing deep to steady yourself against the nervy pleasure-pain. “Made for this.” 

You stare at your braced wide palm against the shimmery blue paint of the Hornet’s hood as he fucks you. It’s like a dream, like heaven. The steady slap of his body against yours until it’s not steady anymore, his breath hot and damp on your neck, his cock splitting you, making your thighs shudder, making you leak beads of precum out onto the car, translucent and obscene. 

He comes first, which so rarely happens. It’s probably because you’re so stunned by this scenario your body is a step behind, but you’d like to think it’s because you just _do this_ to him, you turn him on so much, you make him so hard, make him _feel_ so good he can’t last. He sobs against your back and paints your insides white and you spread your palms wide over his car and think about how you didn't exist in ’51 but if you _did,_ you’d be right here, just as you’re here now. His always, his in every way there is for one person to belong to another. 

When he pulls out it stings and his come drips hot and filthy down your thighs, and it’s only when you roll over to catch that on your fingers that you realize you came all over yourself, all over his car. “God,” you say, fingers trembling as you hold them to the dim single bulb in the garage, coated in pearly white. “What do you even fucking do to me? I came humping metal, didn't realize that was even _possible_.” 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, no longer Hud now that he’s come and the illusion of 51’ has shimmered away around you, like a hologram. He sucks your come off your fingers, wet and sweet before kissing the thudding pulse in your wrist. “I only know I love you, and m’lucky,” 

“We’re _both_ lucky, I guess,” you say, bonelessly slumping onto the concrete floor in nothing but your tee-shirt, heart still pounding in your chest. Your head lolls back against the Hornet’s fender. “Should buy a lotto ticket.” 

He hauls you to your feet, kisses you breathless. You’re so grateful for the way his wrinkled skin gathers under your fingers, for the scrape of his mustache. Your _man,_ your _old_ man. You kiss him back, fingers sliding through thinning hair, exactly where they should be. In any decade, in any universe. 


End file.
